Mara’s quick to respond, “Honey, you can’t think about that, it will drive you insane.”
“I’m already going crazy,” I mumble, tears starting to run. I had kept them in check for long enough. “How could he hurt me like this? Ruin us? Everything we’ve worked so hard to build.” Mara hands me her napkin as I start to sob, the typical story of a suburban mom who also has a full-time job and can’t spend her time reading every text and email her husband receives.
Steven’s supposed to be the saint. The one who upheld every goddamn value that made you a decent human being—compassion, altruistic, warmth, humor, and yes, loyal. Loyal to our family.
I didn’t sign up for this. I worked my ass off so he could be the star parent, the apple of our daughter’s eye. I had replaced the man in the working sense but still didn’t act like one. Hell, I should’ve been bent over my desk fucking a client, ignoring my husband, and yet, I didn’t. Many men had made passes at me over the years, whispered how I’d look better over the desk with them behind me. I’d always looked down at the ring on my finger, the family picture on my desk, and said no. Did he think I hadn’t been tempted especially when we’d been having problems?
I never let myself go down that path. It was a dark one. Friends of mine had had affairs or been on the receiving end. One thing was for sure, it never ended well for either party. Everyone became cold and distant, resentful. It ended in separations or divorce, wild accusations and choosing sides, and the ones who stayed married… well, they became a shell of themselves. Every call, text, email, or spoken word was gurgled around, checked for authenticity, spit out, and discussed like it was open for debate.
No thank you.
So, I kept myself in line. I tried to avoid major pitfalls like weight gain, complaining too much or little, emasculating my husband, and had been open to exploration in the bedroom. I kept myself in shape, kept myself sharp, and made the time for us, so we didn’t drift.
And yet he had. He drifted into the arms of another woman.
The image of him touching another woman… I shut my eyes, pressing them together tightly.
It doesn’t help. I’m going to be sick.
Violently ill.
Before I can move to another area outside of the restaurant, preferably off the patio, I feel the alcohol combined with my chicken and salad from lunch coming up. I heave into the bushes next to our table, the stares of other patrons drilling into the back of my head. Mara’s by my side, holding my hair, soothing me as I let go of every last bit of my breakfast and lunch.
The only thing left is remorse.
After we pay the bill and ignore the glares and hushed whispers of the onlookers, Mara and I head outside. I overhear a woman telling a man that ‘some people just can’t keep the ‘happy’ in happy hour.’ I wanted to stop and scream that it’s not every day your husband has an affair with multiple women as I silently creep past her, my head down in shame whereas Mara’s is held high.
We get to our respective vehicles, my Audi parked next to her ivory Cadillac sedan. “You can’t drive.”
Mara’s tone brooks no argument. “I don’t think you should go home anyway. Want me to call Steven? Would it be weird since he’s never met me?”
I shake my head, “No, I’ll send a text.” The thought of communicating with him makes me shudder. I’m relieved Mara suggested a place to stay. I can’t face him right now, the anger is far too strong. Our daughter is around, and I don’t want her to overhear that her daddy is a cheating piece of shit. I climb into Mara’s leather and sink my head back against the cool tan headrest. She turns the radio down, and we sit in silence, the air conditioning on low as we head to her condo.
Mara’s been married and divorced. Three times. She’s told me that her first husband was an alcoholic abuser, second so dull he might as well be dead, and third had a wandering eye and affinity for a twenty-something. Said she’d never bother again. Now she has a much younger lover and has never been happier. Maybe she’s found the perfect recipe for happiness—no-strings-attached sex without marriage or commitment.
She pulls into a drug store and leaves the car running, “I’ll be right back.” I shut my eyes again against the pit in the hollow of my stomach. Maybe I can ask a single woman to try and message Steven? See how he responds. Funny because in those pictures you can clearly see his wedding ring. Curiosity’s getting the best of me, and I’m wondering how he responds—is he cute and flirtatious, making jokes, or does he use emoji’s, something we never had when we were dating? Does he talk in text speak and say LOL or J/K or does he type it out? Do they know what school he teaches at? That he’s won numerous awards for character and integrity? I snort. Do they have our address and know the sweat I poured into running a house so he could have his big ass truck and top-of-the-line mountain bike?
Probably not.
I’m a figment of their imagination.
They probably think I’m some psycho ex-wife. One that doesn’t let him see his child. Drives past his house when he’s on dates, stalks him via social media, won’t split holidays with him.
I rub a hand over my forehead, a headache squeezing the contents of my brain.
Mara reappears, a couple of plastic bags in hand. She slides in the driver’s side. “I got you a toothbrush, Tylenol, and a few other necessities.” She sets the bag on the floor of my seat.
“Thanks, Mar.” I give her a small smile. “You’re the best.”
She nods, backing out. A few minutes later she speaks, her eyes never leaving the road. “I’m sorry, Aly.”
“For what?” My eyes are watching the road, the dark pavement, the night settling over the valley.
“I didn’t mean to push you tonight or put you in a bad spot. I thought...” She pauses, “… I thought you guys had already split.”
“I know, Mar.”
“Yeah, but I made it about me. About not being the first to know.” Mara taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “How dumb is that? To concern myself that you’d already told others you were getting a divorce.”
“You get the biggest bitch award.” I attempt a joke. “And you’ve lost your account manager.”
“Fair enough.” She turns on her blinker. “Did you text him?”
“No.” I reach down into my purse, the task filling me with dread. Text him and say, sorry honey I can’t come home. I read your dating profile, and there’s not room for more than two of us in bed, and you seem to have made the rounds. Or should I say, hi babe, going on a date tonight, gotta keep up with your track record. Or, as if you’re cheating isn’t bad enough, now you’re just flaunting it.
“I don’t even know what to say.” I have eight missed texts, five from him and three from the office. One is Brynn, asking how I’m doing.
Next, I text Steven.
Aly: I’m not coming home tonight. I’ll pick Liv up and take her to school tomorrow.
He responds back right away by calling. I don’t answer. He tries again. I silence it. I shoot a text back.
Aly: I can’t talk.
Steven: Why not? Where are you?
Aly: I can’t talk.
Steven: What’s going on? Why can’t you answer your phone?
Aly: I don’t want to talk.
Steven: We need to talk.
I don’t respond.
He sends the same text again.
Steven: We need to talk.
Steven: Please.
Steven: We can’t leave it like this.
Aly: I don’t think now’s a good time.
Steven: When then?
Aly: Not now.
Steven: It’s never a good time.
Steven: Everything’s my fault, I know.
Steven: That’s not what I meant. We can’t let this go.
Aly: You just told me last night.
Steven: That was hard enough to do. Now you’re ignoring me.
Aly: So I should feel sorry for you?
Steven: Not at all what I’m saying.
He calls again, straight to voicemail.
Aly: Tell Liv I’ll pick her up for school tomorrow.
Steven: Should I take the day off so we can talk?
Aly: No because I certainly can’t.
Steven: When can we talk? I have to make this right.
Aly: I don’t know if it will be right again. I gotta go.
Steven: I love you. Please know I fucked up, but I love you.
Mara’s pulling into her driveway. “You okay?” She sees me glaring at my screen.
“He has the audacity to tell me he loves me.” I grit my teeth.
“Men, they just don’t think with their heads.” She reaches for the grocery sacks and rolls her eyes. “Or the head that matters.”
“How did you do this three times?” I’m exasperated by one husband, let alone three.
“Well, remember, it was one at a time, or at least that’s what he thought.” She raises a brow. “Patience. Wine and more wine.” She holds up a bottle. “I took it upon myself to keep us stocked up.”
We get out of the car, and a dizzy spell replaces the violent pounding of my head. I lean my head against her doorjamb. “What did I do to deserve this?” I whisper.
She pats my shoulder. “Nothing, Aly, absolutely nothing. One day you’ll realize you have no control over psychology, the inner workings of one’s brain. We tell ourselves we have control of our lives. The simple truth is, we don’t. We don’t control shit.”
I wish I knew how true that was.
The realization came too late. After our lives were ruined. After she was dead.
6
I feel an overwhelming desire to sleep when I lay down on Mara’s five-hundred count threads in her spare bedroom. I hear her orange tabby cat, Fritz, walking around, his paws clicking on the hardwood.
No matter what I do, I can’t sleep.
I listen to NPR. Terry Gross, the host of Fresh Air, usually interviews some interesting producers or writers. I shut my eyes tight, hoping I’ll drift off.
My husband tangled in the sheets with a blonde enters my mind.
Next is white noise. Then the sound of falling rain, a steady trickle that’s supposed to comfort me.
Except I see him taking her on a trip, the two of them giggling like in commercials for Viagra, or maybe it’s high blood pressure medication, seated opposite each other in gigantic bathtubs looking out at the ocean, nothing getting in the way, not even a limp dick or hypertension.
Pandora. I push the icon on my phone. Norah Jones coquettishly sings, “What Am I to You?”
The same question could be asked of my husband.
A wife to warm your bed, mother to your child, breadwinner, just a placeholder until the next one.
Slamming my hand against the wrought iron headboard, I groan in frustration.
I count backward from one hundred.
One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight…
Instead, I toss and turn, my thoughts drifting to my husband’s dating profile. He had to know how risky it would be to put his life out there like that. What if he attracted the attention of other teachers or his principal found out? Were there any rules against that?
Probably not, it’s not like he was looking for an underage girl. He’s an adult welcome to engage in consensual relations with other like-minded adults. I punch the pillow, irritated. Cheating might be frowned upon, but it’s not illegal. At least not in this country.
Sleep doesn’t come. I stare at the digital clock, the numbers reminding me that morning will be here too soon, and I’ll have to put on another fake semblance of normalcy. For Livvie, my colleagues, for the whole damn city.
I’ll have to pretend that my life isn’t broken into tiny pieces—pieces that will never fit back into the jagged puzzle.
Mara takes me back to my vehicle in the morning, my convertible looking sad in the parking lot, the only one abandoned for the evening. I know how you feel, I want to say, my husband abandoned me…
She kisses me on the cheek, “Call me anytime.” She begs, “Please let me know what you need. Anything. I’ll help.” I drive to the nearest Starbucks drive-thru and order myself a venti iced latte and get a Frappuccino for Livvie. This is our treat when we’re not getting ice cream at night. Usually, we go together, but I’m scared if we sit in the drive-thru line together, she’ll ask too many questions. Questions I can’t answer and don’t want to. If she sees me cry, I don’t want her to know her daddy is the cause.
My hands tremble on the steering wheel as I pull up to what used to feel like a home. Our mailbox with Adams stenciled on it, the bird feeder in the yard, the flowers lining the walkway, the outside inviting. Funny how that can change in a matter of days. I sigh. The shades are drawn on the picture windows out front, masking sadness inside, dejection I feel, loneliness pouring out of every vein. Besides Mara, who can I confide in? I don’t have family to worry about but my friends… they’ll hate Steven. And if the reverse were true, I could say the same. My friends and I used to joke about cheating, and my friend, Jeannie, was never the same after her husband had the cliché affair with his secretary. It broke not only their marriage, it broke every friendship in half, each couple having to pick a side, and ruined their children, pushing them straight into pills and then therapy.
I pull in the driveway, but I can’t bring myself to get out. I don’t want to see him.
A honk seems abrupt, so I send him a quick text to let him know I’m outside. Liv comes running out, backpack and lunch barely hanging on in her hand. He follows, his shirt is untucked, and his face is ragged. Must be how I look, I think. There are deep purple circles underneath his eyes, and he keeps his hands in his pockets. He follows Liv. I mutter under my breath “don’t you dare,” but he heads toward the driver’s side. He motions for me to roll down my window.
I glare, my dark sunglasses masking my pain.
He shakes his head in frustration.
“Hi, baby,” I say to Liv as she bursts into the convertible, throwing her school bag in the tiny backseat. Steven decides to open my car door since I won’t appease him.
“What?” I say harshly, turning my face away from him staring straight ahead.
“I just want to know when we can talk.” He’s miserable, his voice barely audible. I can tell from his posture. “I thought we would speak, not that you would give me the cold shoulder.”
“I heard there were more,” I seethe at him as Liv starts messing with the radio dials.
“More what?” When he sees the look of contempt on my face, he tilts his head. “Huh?” A look of confusion plays across his face, brows knitting. “Who would say that?”
“And where did you stay last night?” he asks. I scowl at him.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say putting the car into reverse. “I gotta get Liv to school.”
“Mommy, Daddy said you went out last night and had too much fun.” She looks at me, “… and you couldn’t drive home.”
I give her a tight smile, “That’s right, love bug. That’s why mommy couldn’t come home. She was sick.” I mouth “of your dad” at Steven, but he pretends not to notice, he’s shifting from one foot to the other.
We pull away, and Liv waves at him, adoration in her eyes. The same way I used to look at him. Like he was goddamn Superman, hung the moon, could do no wrong.
How Rome has fallen.
After I drop Liv off, I head to the office. Another day of keeping my shades on for far too long. I notice that my family picture has been removed, and relief washes over me. I don’t remember if I put it in a desk drawer or eventually tossed it in the trash.
Brynn walks in, her steps echoing on the tile. “Hi, Alastair.” She gives me a perky smile. “I ordered some coffee. It should be here soon.”
“Thanks, Brynn. Any messages?”
“You had a call from Robert Reynolds about PR for their new business.”
“Hmm… is it the new gluten-free, organic grocery store?”
“Yes
.” She sets a piece of paper on my desk. “His contact info is on there along with his website.”
“Great, thanks.”
“I sent you an email with some highlights of his organization.”
“Appreciate it.” I sink down into my chair, not bothering to open the blinds. “Please hold my calls until this afternoon. I’m playing catch up.” We both know this is a lie, but she smiles and says, “Of course,” all the same.
She turns on her kitten heels and walks out.
Booting up my laptop, I wonder if I should set up a dummy profile for dating to try and catch Steven. I can’t use my pictures, though. I shoot a quick text to Mara and ask her if she can try and match with him. I don’t think they’ve ever met.
Mara: Let’s not use me. I’ve already swiped the other direction indicating I’m not interested. I’ll reach out to some friends, see who has some pics you can use.
Aly: Thanks. What was your age range? You telling the truth about your age?
Mara: Of course not. Said I was 35.
Aly: LOL. I’ll make sure to be in the 35-38 range when I date, ha-ha.
Mara: It’s just a harmless lie.
My insides wrench thinking about Steven and his lies. Did he think they were harmless? That Liv and I were dispensable sidekicks he could pretend didn’t exist? The thought makes me heave, my coffee coming up as I hurry out of my office, my heels clicking as the office watches in curiosity as I hold my throat and avoid eye contact.
I make it into the bathroom as the contents of the morning spill over in the toilet, my knees shaking as I wipe my mouth and stare at the back of the fiberglass. Sinking back onto my knees, I bury my head in my hands, my throat stinging as tears fall down my cheeks unchecked. How did this become my life? I thought I did everything right, and it still wasn’t enough. I let pity overtake me, sobs coursing through my body, my shoulders shudder in response.
The door opens to the ladies’ room, but I don’t hear it, too consumed with my thoughts. A light knock on the stall pulls me out of my reverie.
The Ruined Wife: Psychological Thriller Page 5
